The Last Afternoon of Numenor
by Hellga
Summary: The last afternoon of Numenor through the eyes of a baker's wife from Hyarrostar


DISCLAIMER: Númenor, its downfall, and its language Adûnaic belong to Tolkien. The characters of Zamîn, Yônithil, Ulbar and Îbal belong to me, even though the names themselves were created by Tolkien. Minulbêth simply belongs to me.  
  
THE LAST AFTERNOON OF NÚMENOR  
  
The air was so thick she could swear it was weighing down her shoulders like a pair of heavy hands, making her slump forward. She did not want to believe it was old age catching up with her. Even though death was claiming Númenóreans earlier and earlier, 84 was still far from being old. She sighed heavily and continued hanging heavy damp clothes on the ropes.  
"I don't know if that laundry will ever dry in such a humid air, and without the wind." She caught herself muttering quietly and shook her head. "Yes, what did I expect, after years full of lonely days will even the King would talk to himself." She suddenly grew suspicious and looked around. With so many people disappearing in the last few month, one never knew who might be listening. She didn't want to be burned at the altar, and surely not without hugging her son for the last time. Everything was quiet in the damp heat, not a branch moved. She quietly started putting clothespins up, just in case. Her thoughts wandered back to the weather, and she didn't even notice that she started speaking softly, her thoughts as slow and aimless as everything else on that sweltering afternoon.  
"Wind was howling like mad for the last three weeks, yet today everything is quiet, not a single leaf rustles. and the cat is hiding under my bed, she didn't even come out when I poured fresh milk into her bowl. and the milk price went up again today. everything has been going up in price every day since the King has declared that he will go to Amatthâni. I wonder why. Though what can a baker's wife know of such matters? I should concern myself with my house, and my family. I should send a letter to Ulbar. He should come see his old mama more often. Yes, I will send him a letter this afternoon.or maybe tomorrow."  
She never knew that would be the last afternoon in her life, and in life of Númenor.  
  
***  
  
She finished hanging the clothes, meticulously smoothing even the smallest folds, and stumped into her small house, stepping heavily on her left leg, broken years ago and never properly healed.  
It was still an early afternoon, and she had a lot to do. Windows had to be washed for the winter, and yellow silk drapes, brought by her only son from Harad seven years ago, needed to be put away. She stopped for a moment, touching the rare fabric and thinking of him.  
"Wherever the King's ships took you, I hope you are safe." she murmured, sudden tears clenching her throat.  
At that time a neighbour knocked on the door. She was the butcher's wife, and was born in Armenelos. In this small town in the south of Hyarrostar a lady from the capital was looked up to. Especially because she learned some herbs in her youth, and was the closest the town had to a healer.  
"I saw you are doing laundry, Zamîn. Doesn't your back still hurt from that fall?"  
"No, Yônithil, that brown herb you have me did help. But I had a bad dream last night. I saw that my boy was stretching his hands out, trying to reach me, but there was a wall between us that I could not break. I woke up and was shaking for the rest of the night. Îbal just laughed at me, but I saw he was worried too. He loves our boy no less than I do, even if he tries not to show that. We are so proud of Ulbar! He is serving on the King's ship! He wrote that the King even smiled at him once! But I am so afraid... I just hope he comes back soon."  
"Why wouldn't he? Yôzâyan has never lost a war, and Avalôi will make us all young again. I try to hide the gray in my hair, but every day I see more and more of it. Old Minulbêth, who taught me herbs, told that Nimîr never become gray. He was from Romenna, and I think he was a Nimruzîr. They all are."  
"Haven't seen any here for as long as I lived. Nimîr, I mean. And who knows about Nimruzîrim? They don't have pointy ears, do they? Oh, being young again sure would be good, but not if my son had to die for my youth. And whether I grow old or not, I still need to knead the dough to have fresh bread by tomorrow's opening. War or no war, people always complain if the bread is not fresh, or the dough is too sour. Why do we always complain?"  
The women sighed and were silent for a moment. Then a low rumbling noise came from the west, and grew louder and louder by the minute. It was unlike anything they have ever heard before.  
"What is that?" Yônithil squeaked, holding on to Zamîn, trying to stay steady on the rocking ground. The scared cat ran into the room and sank her claws in Zamîn's ankle. Terrified woman didn't even notice it, her eyes wide with fear, not so much for herself as for her beloved son. He was there, in the west, where the storm came from. She shrieked, realizing her helplessness, and younger woman joined in the piercing wail, lost in the roar of the rushing water and howling of the sudden wind. The waves were reclaiming their gift of long ago. Two women hugged each other and closed their eyes. They felt that was the end, and none of them knew why it came.  
  
THE END.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
  
I decided to try a different approach than most authors, who write from positions of Ar-Pharazon or Tar-Miriel. I wanted to write about the grand catastrophe from the point of view of a "small person", such as a baker's wife. Blame the Russian Literature of Second Half of 19th Century lectures for that.  
  
Zamîn and Yônithil are actual Adûnaic feminine names, created by Tolkien and borrowed by me.  
  
Ulbar and Îbal are actual Adûnaic masculine names, created by Tolkien and borrowed by me.  
  
I would suppose that 84 for a simple low-born Númenorean at the end of the Second Age would correspond to about 40-45 for a person from a post- industrialized modern country.  
  
Amatthâni - Adûnaic - Aman, the land of the Valar, the Blessed Realm  
  
Yôzâyan - the name of Númenor in Adûnaic Avalôi - Adûnaic for "Valar"  
  
Nimîr - Adûnaic for "Elves"  
  
Nimruzîr (plural Nimruzîrim) - Adûnaic for "Elf-friends", thuse Númenoreans who remained friendly with Elves even in the later days of Númenor 


End file.
